I would know.
Christine’s hand covers mine briefly. “Hey. Enough heavy stuff. Tell me about the bodyguard situation. Is he hot? Please tell me there’s at least one silver lining to this nightmare.”
I suppress a laugh. “There are two of them, actually?—”
“Two?” Her face lights up. “Even better! Tell me everything. Better yet, show me photos.”
“I did not take photos of my security detail.”
“Criminal oversight. Are they hot?”
“Actually...yes. Very.”
Christine leans forward like I’ve just revealed state secrets. “Define ‘very.’”
“Too young for us.”
“Who made you the age police? How young?”
“The one living in my house is thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one is not too young. Thirty-one is perfect.” She waves her mimosa for emphasis. “You’re forty-one, not eighty-one.”
I cross my arms. “Yes, exactly what every attractive thirty-one-year-old man wants—a relationship with a single mom who has a twelve-year-old daughter.”
“That’s oddly specific.” Christine tilts her head. “And you said, ‘the one living in your house’ like you’ve already narrowed it down.”
Damn it. “Only one of them is living with me.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“And nothing. He’s just...there. Professionally.”
“How professionally did you describe him as ‘very’ hot?”
“I was answering your question.”
“Was the question ‘describe him in a way that makes me think you’ve thought about this extensively’?” She grins. “Because that’s what I’m hearing.”
I pick up my menu like a shield. “What’s the special today?”
“You never order anything else.” She cackles. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not?—”
“What’s his name?”
“Noah.” Her eyes practically twinkle. I should not have shared that.
“Noah.” She says it slowly, testing it. “Okay. So we’ve established he’s thirty-one, hot, lives in your house, and you refer to him by his name. What else?”
“There’s nothing else.”
“Is he single?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Then what’s the problem? You’re single. He’s single. You’re both consenting adults sharing a house.”